


If you like pina coladas

by CoffeeKristin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 10:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15705042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeKristin/pseuds/CoffeeKristin
Summary: How Jonny ended up at a Jimmy Buffett concert in Chicago in the middle of some sort of summer festival at Millenium Park is a long story, and entirely the fault of one Patrick Sharp.





	If you like pina coladas

**Author's Note:**

> My second trope bingo square, for the "Summer Nights/Concert" trope, complete with Jimmy Buffett and the Kaner Shuffle. A silly meet cute. Thanks to the ladies of the word-war sprints, you guys helped me so much with your insta-feedback. <3

How Jonny ended up at a Jimmy Buffett concert in Chicago in the middle of some sort of summer festival at Millenium Park is a long story, and entirely the fault of one Patrick Sharp.

And Jonny will make him pay, he thinks darkly as he rubs his temples, the plinking sounds of steel drums making his head throb a little. It also might be the amount of coconut and pineapple in his drink. The sugar count alone is gonna fuck his system up for days, and that’s leaving aside the amount of rum in it. 

Tonight is just one in a long line of escapades that Jonny’s been bullied or coerced or fucking tricked into by Sharpy, and he’s learned that the liberal application of any kind of alcohol - even gross Malibu rum, ugh - helps.

He takes another sip and grimaces. Probably better to just get it over with, he thinks to himself, and drains the last bit from the complimentary souvenir hurricane glass it came in. He scowls while he looks around for somewhere to deposit the glass because there’s no way he’s lugging a fragile, tacky, keepsake around all night. He’s placing it on a nearby empty table when someone speaks up to his left.

“You just gonna leave that?”

He looks over to where a young guy - one of the few people he’s seen that look even remotely close to Jonny’s age at this terrible concert - is sitting at a table by himself. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap and in the dim light, Jonny can make out a flash of white teeth and dimples when the guy smiles at him. 

“I’ll take it, if you don’t want it,” he continues, beckoning to Jonny. “Add it to my collection.” There are at least ten pilsners and hurricane glasses adorned with the Margaritaville logo in front of him.

“Yes, I can see that you don’t have nearly enough,” Jonny says dryly.

“Nope!” The guy laughs. “I love them. And - “

“And he has a problem,” a girl says as she walks up to the guy and smacks him on the shoulder. “The problem being that he’s a hoarder. Mom told you she doesn’t want any more of this Margaritaville shit in the basement, Pat.”

“This isn’t for Mom and Dad’s house, _Erica,_ the guy - Pat - snipes. “It’s for my new place.” He looks a little sheepishly at Jonny. “I don’t have a lot of stuff yet, figured this would be a good start.”

“Somehow I feel like there’s a better answer than fifteen Pilsners with tropical logos on them,” Jonny laughs, but he obligingly puts his empty glass on the table. 

“Like pitching them because they’re hideous,” Erica mutters under her breath.

Pat gasps and puts his hand to his chest. “Never!” just as Jonny says, “don’t throw them away, recycle them!”

“Well, aren’t you a pair,” Erica snorts, holding her hands up in defeat.

“I don’t care what you say, I’m taking these home,” Pat says firmly. “Even got a box from the bartender to pack ‘em in and a place to put them until the concert is over.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, I’m not carrying them,” she says.

“Like I’d trust you not to drop them on purpose,” Pat scoffs.

“Are you gonna use them as like, kitchenware?” Jonny asks doubtfully, trying to imagine drinking orange juice out of one them. They’re almost twelve inches tall and wholly impractical for anything except serving a beer or the kind of drink Jonny just finished.

“Nah, Imma make a Margaritaville bar in one corner, serve pina coladas and shit, you know.” He dances in his seat, doing a little side to side shuffle. “Play Jimmy, wear my parrot head hat, get my Buffett freak on. It’ll be rad.”

“Freak is right,” Erica snorts, turning to Jonny. “Can you believe there’s a twenty nine year old man this obsessed with Jimmy Buffett?”

“Yeah, he does seem a little young to be a parrot head,” Jonny shrugs, biting down a smile. “Then again, does anyone say _rad_ anymore? Maybe he’s just well preserved.”

“I’m twenty nine!” Pat protests.

“He’s got the hairline for this crowd, that’s for sure,” Erica nods.

“Hey now,” Pat frowns, while Jonny resists the urge to touch his own growing forehead.

“And he’s never gonna get laid tonight dressed like - “ she waves at Pat vaguely - “that. Then again, I told him this wasn’t a good place to pick up guys, unless he’s looking for a sugar daddy. But then you showed up, so...” When Pat glares at her, she shrugs her shoulders. “What? He’s hot!”

“Fucking hell, Erica,” Pat snaps, “stop trying to set me up, you know your gaydar is for crap.” He turns to Jonny, his face blazing. “I’m sorry, she’s just trying to embarass me.“

“It’s not that crap,” Jonny says mildly, amused when Pat’s mouth drops open. “Her gaydar, I mean.”

“Ha!” Erica crows. “I knew it!”

“Mind if I sit?” Jonny asks, ignoring the gloating smirk Erica’s directing at Pat. He pulls out a stool and sits down, thigh brushing Pat’s under the table. Pat moves his leg away immediately, biting his lip.

“Please,” Erica says as she steps away from the table. “I’m just gonna go see if I can find our parents. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

“Oh my god,” Pat moans softly, his hand over his mouth. He’s still beat red. “Sorry about that, man, you don’t have to front that you’re gay anymore, she’s gone.”

“I’m not fronting,” Jonny says, tapping the table lightly. “Although she’s only half-right. I’m bi.”

“You - I thought you were just being bros? Are you really bi?” Pat sits back, relaxing a little on his stool. “Seriously?”

“Have you seen my ass? It’d be wasted on a heterosexual,” Jonny replies, and then snorts when Pat looks down at the stool Jonny’s sitting on and then away quickly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Have _you_ seen your ass? It’s kinda hard to miss,” Pat says, a crooked smile making his dimples flash again, looking a lot more at ease than he had a minute ago. “I’m Pat Kane, by the way.”

“Jonathan Toews, but call me Jonny.” They shake hands, and Jonny likes the firm grip, makes note that his fingers are thick. He keeps holding on when Pat tries to pull his hand back, turning it a little to look at the ragged, bitten-down nails. “Wow, man, don’t they feed you enough? These are brutal.”

“I know, I know,” Pat says, tugging his hand free, and putting both hands under the table out of view. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Got an oral fixation, huh?” When Pat flushes, Jonny leans in. “Aren’t we a pair of cliche queens, hmm?”

Pat barks out a laugh, nodding. “I mean, we are both at a Buffett concert, it’s not generally considered the most masculine of the musical options.”

“True, true, although I’m not here of my own accord,” Jonny scowls. “My asshole best friend kinda dragged me here.”

“He can’t be that much of an asshole if he’s bringing you to see Buffett,” Pat counters.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Jonny asks and Pat moves closer, turning his head so his ear is nearer to Jonny. Jonny leans in, let's his lips brush Pat’s ear. “I’m not a Buffett fan.”

“Not a Buffett fan!” Pat gasps dramatically. “That’s not a goddamn lie, you faker.”

“Eh, Margaritaville was okay but I’m not so much for the steel drums,” Jonny replies with a grin when Pat opens his mouth to argue with him. “And, since I’m being honest, I really don’t like pina coladas.”

“My God, are you even American?” Pat squints at him. “Or are you a Russian sent to infiltrate our fair country?”

“Actually, no, I’m not American?” Jonny laughs when Pat gawps at him. “Relax, I’m just Canadian.”

“I’m so sorry,” Pat says somberly, and Jonny pushes his shoulder. He feels solid, strong, and Jonny let's his hand linger a moment before dropping it back to his side. “Seriously, though, what’s a bi Canadian under the age of sixty - especially one who pretends he doesn’t like Buffett - doing at a Margaritaville concert? In Chicago?’

“Well, I live in Chicago, but like I said, my best friend,” Jonny sighs. “He had four tickets and a client to entertain who was bringing a date. He didn’t want to bring his wife - or his wife wouldn’t come, because somehow she’s better at saying no to him than I am. _Et voila, je suis ici._ ”

“What? Was that - are you speaking Canadian, man?”

“Speaking - Canadian is not a language, you know that right?” When Pat smirks, he sighs. “Asshole. And yes, I speak French.”

“Ooo la la,” Pat sing-songs, then makes kissing noises.

“Is that - are you doing Pepe LePew?” Jonny asks, groaning when Pat nods happily. “You know that fucking skunk is the worst stereotypes of French people right?”

“Are you trying to tell me that not all French people stink and are mimes? Because there’s no way I believe that, man, cartoons don’t lie.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Jonny flips him off. “And I’m not French, anyway, I’m from Winnipeg. My mom’s from Quebec, though.”

They chat for a few minutes about their backgrounds, including that Pat’s the oldest of four and from Buffalo, but moved to Chicago last week.

“I’m the oldest, and Erica’s the oldest of my three sisters.”

“Three sisters?” Jonny whistles. “Kinda outnumbered there, huh?”

“Yeah, imagine my friends shock when I told them I was gay,” Pat says dryly. “As though the crossdressing, playing with dolls, and monthly dance contests we had growing up weren’t clue enough.”

“You were doomed from the start,” Jonny agrees, knocking his shoulder lightly against Pat’s. “I only have one brother.”

“Probably why you’re bi,” Pat says consideringly, “didn’t get the full gay gene.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” Jonny snorts. “Dave - “

He’s interrupted by a sudden increase in the volume of the music, and the crowd roaring. They’re in a small area just beyond view of the stage, and people are rushing by to get inside. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a warm Chicagoland welcome to the one and only Jimmy Buffett!

“Guess that’s your cue.” Jonny looks over at Pat, who’s biting his lip and looking torn. “Are you going in?”

“I - “ Pat squints at him, then squares his shoulders. “Yeah, but, wanna come with? I know this isn’t really your thing, but - “

“Sure,” Jonny says easily. “S’what we’re here for, right? Lead the way.” Pat beams at him and makes quick work of packing up the glasses. They stow the box in an out of the way corner, and wind their way out of the picnic area into the grassy area where the stage is set up in the distance, Jonny following closely behind Pat. 

Afraid they’ll get separated as they join the rest of the crowd, Jonny grabs a hold of Pat’s shirt, shocking pink and covered in pineapples, and it’s a good thing he does. The crowd thickens as they make their way as close as possible to the stage, thousands of people swaying to… something with steel drums, but Jonny doesn’t recognize the melody.

“This is one of my favorites!” Pat shouts over the music, raising his hands as if in victory. “I love when he opens with this!” When Jonny looks blank he frowns. “It’s Livingston Saturday Night!”

“Uh, right,” Jonny says, still clueless, and Pat rolls his eyes.

“You don’t know it? How - you know what, never mind, just enjoy, you’re gonna love it.”

And despite himself and all his earlier resistance about coming tonight, Jonny does. He especially enjoys it when Pat starts dancing, a horrible, mostly uncoordinated shuffle accompanied by a shoulder shimmy. He somehow always manages to be off of the beat. It’s almost impressive.

“Are you sure you’re gay?” Jonny teases, laughing. “Because you’re a truly terrible dancer.”

“You just wish you had these moves,” Pat shouts back, stepping closer and shimmying at Jonny until he laughs and slaps him away.

“No, really, that’s just awful. Now I think I know why your sister’s worried about you getting laid,” Jonny shakes his head at him.

“Haters gonna hate, I’m just gonna dance,” Pat crows.

Jonny actually facepalms at that, but once he pulls his hand away from his own face Pat’s grin is so gorgeous he can’t help it, he has to touch him, be closer to him. He can’t help laughing when Pat keeps trying to dance even as he lets Jonny wrap an around around him, tucking Pat in under his chin. They sway a little - with the beat, now that Jonny’s in charge - and watch as the people around them go crazy for the next song, Pat still panting a little from his earlier exertions.

“What’s this one called?” Jonny says into Pat’s ear, brushing the curls there aside with his nose, then tucking Pat in a little closer. He smells good - like apples or watermelon, something sweet, but also like sweat, a sharp scent that makes heat coil in Jonny’s belly. He can’t help snuffling a little, and Pat wriggles and pushes at him.

“It’s - it’s - stop doing that, Jesus,” Pat says, eyes wide and hot when he turns to look up at him. “What are you doing, anyway? What - what are _we_ doing?”

“Is it really that hard to figure out?” Jonny tugs a little on a curl that’s escaped Pat’s hat, then slides a finger along his jawline to press against his lower lip. Pat’s mouth opens, and he bites down lightly on the tip, swiping his tongue across it.

“Mmm coconut and rum,” Pat says and grabs Jonny’s wrist, holding his finger in place while he sucks on it lightly. “Yummy.”

“Pat,” Jonny says, breath coming quicker. “Can I…”

“You’d better,” Pat says, and pulls Jonny into a kiss. They keep it light, mostly without tongue, but the kiss ranks in the top five hottest things to happen to Jonny ever. He can’t believe he’s kissing a guy he met not fifteen minutes ago, a guy he feels a connection to despite his terrible taste in clothes and music and his awful dance moves, a guy who’s currently sliding his hand into Jonny’s back pocket.

“Wow,” Pat sighs, lips finally parting and licking into Jonny’s mouth. 

“And this really lives up to its billing,” Pat says a few minutes later, squeezing the swell of Jonny’s ass through the denim of his shorts.

“You have no idea,” Jonny smirks, and Pat’s eyes sharpen with want. He pulls Jonny closer and they both moan a little as his cock slots into Pat’s hip. He can’t help the way his hips buck a little but then he makes himself ease back, putting a little distance between them, because they’re way too public for this kind of make-out session. 

“Wanna take this somewhere more private?” Jonny says hoarsely.

“I - “ Pat blows out a shaky breath. “I do but…”

“After the show’s over, I mean,” Jonny clarifies, because he can see how much being here means to Pat and he doesn’t want him to feel he has to choose between the concert or going home with Jonny. He’s rewarded with another radiant smile, and a quick peck on the corner of his mouth.

“Then yeah, I really would,” Pat says, squeezing Jonny’s ass one more time before sliding back a step. 

They listen to another few songs, just swaying in place together, Pat singing along here and there. It’s comfortable, companionable, and totally unexpected, to find someone like Pat at a Buffett concert of all places.

Ugh, Sharpy’s gonna be so smug.


End file.
